At 2:13 in the morning, a pregnant woman called 911 and whispered that her husband was going to kill her.

While the Magnesium Sulfate slowly worked to stabilize Wren’s neurological system and drop her blood pressure from the stroke zone, Dax Monroe began inspecting the physical confines of the basement room.

The space was roughly twelve by fourteen feet, constructed of poured concrete walls and a sealed floor. The only point of entry was the reinforced steel door, which swung inward and was secured from the outside by a heavy sliding latch mechanism.

"The hinges are on the inside," Dax whispered to Rowan as he pretended to clean blood-stained towels near the doorway. "If we pull the hinge pins, the door won't fall automatically because the outer latch is engaged, but it will create enough play for us to wedge something into the seam."

"We need a weapon," Kira added, keeping her eyes fixed on Wren’s cardiac monitor. "We have trauma shears, an aluminum oxygen cylinder, and heavy IV poles."

"The oxygen cylinder," Rowan said thoughtfully. "It’s a D-tank. Solid aluminum, pressurized at two thousand pounds per square inch. If we open that valve full throttle inside a tight corridor, or use it as a striking instrument, it delivers immense force."

Suddenly, Wren groaned loudly, her body stiffening on the mattress. Her legs locked, and her hands gripped the iron frame of the bed so hard her knuckles turned chalk white.

"Contraction!" Kira called out, checking the fetal heart rate monitor they had applied to Wren’s abdomen. "Rowan, the baby's heart rate is dropping! It was one-forty five minutes ago, now it’s down to eighty-eight!"

Rowan rushed to Wren’s side, placing her stethoscope against the soft curve of the belly. "Late decelerations. The placenta isn't getting enough oxygen during contractions because of her high vascular resistance. Dax, roll her onto her left side immediately! Oxygen at fifteen liters via non-rebreather mask!"

Dax instantly lifted Wren’s upper body, gently turning her onto her left side to relieve pressure on the inferior vena cava, while Kira strapped the clear plastic oxygen mask over her nose and mouth.

"Breathe deep, Wren," Rowan commanded softly, holding the girl’s face between her gloved hands. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. Deep, steady breaths. Give that baby every drop of oxygen you can."

For two agonizing minutes, the room was silent except for the harsh, metallic hiss of the oxygen regulator and the rhythmic, labored gasps of the young mother.

Gradually, the digital monitor began to beep faster. Ninety-two... one-ten... one-thirty-five.

"Heart rate is recovering," Kira breathed out a massive sigh of relief, wiping cold sweat from her own forehead. "She converted back to normal sinus rhythm."

"That was too close," Dax growled under his breath, staring up at the security camera with pure fire in his eyes. "If her placenta abrupts down here, we won't be able to stop the internal hemorrhage without a surgical suite. We have to make our move before full delivery occurs."

"No," Rowan disagreed firmly, her surgical focus unwavering. "If we attack Arthur while Wren is in active labor, the physical shock could trigger total uterine rupture. We stabilize her, we get this baby out safely into the world, and the moment that child takes its first breath, we strike."

She looked at Dax and Kira, her voice hardening like forged steel. "Are we clear?"